


The Scenic Route

by Mighty_Meerkat



Category: Journey's End - Sherriff
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Comedy, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, OC, Suicidal Thoughts, War, also, bc i can't write porn and i'm not going to pretend i can, death mention, he lives to Brood over yet more tables!, i don't particularly want to learn either, i guess, i'm trying to write it sensitively, it's journey's end, mostly awkward comedy, multiple OCs - Freeform, off screen sex, poor guy needs a hug, quite a bit of it, seriously that's my favourite stage direction bc it basically sums up half of the play, so that's kind of a given, stanhope gets punched twice, swine mention, that's how i've been advertising this to my friends, the angry trashchild lives in this canon!!!!, unrequited gay crush, yes another one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mighty_Meerkat/pseuds/Mighty_Meerkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanhope doesn't want to talk about the war. He'd rather like to be left alone, where he can't let people down again.<br/>Stanhope rarely gets what he wants. But this time, he might just get what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. About A Coat

Since the war had broken out, Dr Willard had treated many cases of shell-shock among many men. Some shouted, some were mute. Some couldn’t eat, some couldn’t stop drinking. Some couldn’t sleep, some seemed barely awake.

His current patient could best be described as Difficult.

Captain Stanhope had been in a different hospital, following a decent-sized bit of shrapnel lodging itself in his right forearm up at St Quentin earlier in the year, when he woke with a loud yell one night and threw a potted plant directly at the end of his bed. For an hour afterward, he said only the words ‘He can’t be here’ until they lost all meaning, and winced at the pain in his arm caused by the sudden movement. Apparently, the arm would never be properly right again, meaning Stanhope was, for the first time in his life, sitting on the side-lines as other people got things done, and this had done little to improve his already poor temper. In the six months since his arrival at the new hospital, he had gotten into eleven verbal altercations with his fellow patients, normally starting with ‘What the devil d’you think you’re looking at?!’. He had refused all visits except one from his father, which ended with the two men loudly calling each other swine. And Willard was fairly certain he was involved in the frequent alcohol-smuggling operations into the hospital, out of a dangerous combination of boredom and alcoholism.

“So you can see,” Stanhope was saying rather mildly, “Why it would be a terrible idea for me to go on a holiday, of all things, with Captain Alfred Bloody Trotter and his wife. I want to strangle him, for God’s sake, I’ve told you repeatedly.”

Willard was listening, barely.

“I see you’ve gotten around to having the sleeve of your coat mended, now that winter’s drawing on” he noted. “You do know you could have brought a new one, don’t you?”

“What for?” Stanhope was suddenly, just slightly, more confrontational “I like this coat; I’ve had it since the war began. It’s terribly comfortable. And besides…” Here he mumbled something that seemed to include the word ‘dashing’.

“Pardon?”

Stanhope fidgeted for a few seconds.

“…Oh, what the hell, I suppose it can’t hurt to show you, of all people” He fished around inside his top pocket and came up with a rather battered looking wallet, from which he handed Willard a well-thumbed picture. A very pretty-looking young woman beamed up at him.

“Her name’s Margaret Raleigh – Madge to her friends, and, well, me” And then the words came tumbling out “Did you ever have that feeling where you don’t really notice someone, and then all of a sudden, you know your life’s about to change, and you think, well, I say, your smile is very nice, and she says she thinks you have very blue eyes, and the next thing you know, you’re kissing under the apple tree? I think you can tell that I did, and I have to say, I would probably recommend the experience, only, well…I went off, of course, and she gave me that photo, and I looked at it a lot, and because I was a bloody prig back then, I showed it to everyone else in the company…and then one by one, they all died. So I still kept the picture, but I kept it to myself, and in a funny way, I got to thinking that if I never let anyone know about her, and I never let her know anything about them, that would keep everyone safe. And it’d keep it all neat and separate – I could be two people – I could be the hero she thinks I am – and the drunk mess I actually am.”

Here there was a long pause, during which Willard was reminded that Stanhope was twenty-two years old. The war didn’t show very much at all, except in the eyes, which were shadowed, and the left hand, which shook with the lack of alcohol, and the right arm, which was held slightly awkwardly and rarely moved. He was an old man in a young man’s face.

“I saw her brother die,” after a long gulp of air, “Three days after he came to my bloody company of all places – shot in the spine. I sat with him. He was a little kid. And after that, I stood up, and I walked outside, and for a moment, I was so happy when I got this –” here he gestured to his right arm “- because I thought, well, if this doesn’t kill me, I can still go down fighting. I can’t keep people alive, can’t stop drinking, can’t do a lot of things anymore…but if everyone at home – if _she_ thought I’d been a good brave dead hero, I’d have done my job, wouldn’t I? Of course, I must have been giving out a funny sort of look, because almost as soon as I’d got to my feet again, up comes that swine Trotter and he punches me right in the face! Sorry skipper, but you’ve got a Blighty! I don’t particularly want to die anymore; there’s not much point if it doesn’t mean anything, but if I ever met that utter bastard, I would have words with him!”

“And yet you went out of your way to ensure Mr Trotter got an MC.”

“Well of course I did,” said Stanhope, as though this was perfectly obvious, “He’d done a bloody good job – shown real initiative, which I didn’t think him capable of. The fact that he did it by punching me in the face is completely irrelevant. But the point still stands: I do not want to see Trotter again. I do not want to see his wife. I do not want to see my father, or my mother, or – or Miss Raleigh ever again. I don’t. I don’t.”

 

Two months later found Stanhope sitting in a train carriage bound for the Lake District with Mr and Mrs Trotter. Dr Willard, the complete and absolute swine, had personally recommended the Turnmouth Arms, recently brought by a Mr Singh and his wife, because of the good walks and fresh winter air. Mrs Trotter had immediately agreed to this, as in her opinion, her husband was getting rather fat.

“He was much thinner before he went out – could put my arms round him, whereas now they just sort of end up in thin air. Have another sandwich, Mr Stanhope.”

Trotter, with his feet up on the opposite seat, was indignant.

“That’s because I’ve seen you burn soup, Ellie. I’ve become accustomed to an ‘igher standard of living in those bloody trenches. I’m a man of the world now.”

“You look like you’ve eaten it.” Mrs Trotter responded with a grin, “Still, I didn’t marry you for your good looks, Alf.”

“That’s a filthy lie, Trotter, and you know it.” Stanhope couldn’t resist joining in, “Every day I knew you you’d complain about Mason’s cooking.”

“Can’t believe it – betrayed, by my fellow soldier! As if you were any better with how much you went on about how you hated apricots.”

Laughing, Stanhope realised he had genuinely missed this, needling Trotter, getting teased in return. It didn’t feel as horrible as he was expecting, it felt just as it had done before…back in the trenches. He needed another drink. He left the carriage, banging the door behind him.

The view from the corridor window was impressively melancholy; in the late December evening the whole valley was covered in some rather atmospheric mist. It was the perfect place for a good bit of brooding, and Stanhope knew it. Cold, remote, lonely, no-one to ask you how you were feeling, no-one to let down, no loud noises, plenty of friendly pubs…he could live here forever…no-one would know who he was. He opened the window; he wanted to feel the night air, it was so lovely and cold, it was…

“Erm…excuse me? Excuse me? Sir?...Captain?”

Stanhope turned toward the offending voice. It belonged to a young woman in slightly dowdy clothes, the textbook definition of the Plain Friend. She was shifting about on her feet.

“I was wondering if you could close the window? It’s rather cold. Thank you.”  This was accompanied by a tightening of her scarf, as though she thought he wouldn’t understand the word ‘cold’.

This was ridiculous – he couldn’t hold a conversation with people without being reminded of the war; he couldn’t brood out of a window without an annoying girl asking him to close it. Stanhope slammed the window shut and walked bitterly along the corridor, searching for a place he could drink in peace. If there was one thing he could say about his coat, it made for one hell of a dramatic exit.

Frances Renfrew watched the man leave, then turned back to her own compartment, carrying several items from the food cart. War hero or not, she decided, that was a rather rude young man. Still, she’d never see him again. One of the best things about no longer living at home, she decided, was not being made to talk to Nice Young Men About Her Age, and hopefully this would continue on the holiday. She found the compartment, entered, and cheerfully held up the food and drink for the only other occupant.

Madge Raleigh beamed back.

“Oh, thank you so much for the lemonade, I haven’t had any in simply ages!” Madge took a sip, and her face wrinkled in disgust, “Oh God, that’s vile – that’s the sourest taste ever! It tastes like…wasps! I’d ask you to try it, but…”

“Oh, you’re right! Sweet Jesus, that’s foul! You’ve definitely got the reservations?”

“Twin room at the Turnmouth Arms, don’t worry. Perfect for two nice young school chums having a quiet, post-war Christmas. I deserve a break from the dear parentals, and you deserve a break from looking for work in the winter months. What could possibly go wrong? Apart from being stranded in the middle of nowhere, I mean.”

The train rattled on.


	2. Welcome to Turnmouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Madge gets almost the exact opposite reunion to the one she wanted, but tries to make it work.

Frances rather liked train journeys. The air around the train platform always seemed to buzz with excitement, and it was always a rather interesting experience to sit down in one place and walk off in another. When she was younger, she and her family would take the train down to Brighton in the summer, and Miss Erskine, the governess, would take Frances and her twin brother Freddie to walk along the carriages in search of the dinner cart. Along the way, they’d look into the compartments at the various people sitting down and make up stories about them. Freddie’s preferred passenger was a spy, carrying secret documents about a captured Belgian countess who wore pearls to bed. Frances would look out of the window and try to memorize the names of the villages they passed, rolling them around on her tongue. This was something she felt she had in common with Madge, at least; both saw the train to Brighton as an escape from their family after, well – after their brothers had died. The other thing they had in common. The difference being that at the end of the day, Madge would go back home to Lyndhurst, where her parents were still busy pretending everything was perfect, and Frances would walk back to the bed-and-breakfast on the seafront, and try to apply for yet another job.  
“But if there’s one thing I don’t like about trains,” Madge was saying, sipping absently at the horrible lemonade, “It’s the frightful cold as the wind rushes past.”  
“Oh!” exclaimed Frances, with the natural enthusiasm of someone who has a suitable anecdote, “There was a young man further down the corridor who had the window pulled down, and it was making my face sting! He seemed rather upset when I asked him to close it.”  
“Maybe he just wanted a bit of fresh air. Dennis always used to say – oh, Frances, there’s no need to roll your eyes so!”  
“I’m not rolling them that much!” Frances protested, “It’s just that’s what you used to do at school – talk about that nice, sweet boy who came to stay with you every summer – he’s this tall, and he doesn’t like sugar in his tea, and he…and he plays cricket…and we kissed under the apple tree!”  
Madge squeaked with laughter in spite of herself, and Frances felt an awkward jump in her stomach that had very little to do with the movement of the train. Nothing to worry about. Just a normal friendly reaction to making your friend happy. Frances was sure that seeing Madge smile like that would make anyone want to waltz down the train corridor whistling ‘Ode to Joy’.  
And she did want so badly to stay friends.  
The train pulled in at Turnmouth Station fairly soon afterwards, and Madge Raleigh found herself shivering rather badly. She’d had colder weather working in the Land Army, of course, but there’d been more to do, and some slightly older girls who’d taught her some truly brilliant swear words. Madge suspected Frances probably wouldn’t mind bad language, but since being called home in March, she’d had to constantly keep her tongue in check around her parents – stay calm, stay cheerful. It’s very difficult for them. Be the little ray of sunshine they need you to be, and don’t ask for anything in return. Don’t talk about the pictures on the mantelpiece, and it’s like he’s still with us.  
Madge slipped a ‘bloody hell’ under her breath, and then instantly checked to see if anyone on the platform had heard her. Frances was looking at the train timetable and checking her wristwatch nervously, which left the three other arrivals. A short, plump man, his even shorter wife, and…no. It couldn’t be.  
“…Dennis? Is that you?”  
Madge had been over this scenario in her head every night since he’d gone away. There was a train platform in London, crowded, but not too packed. She’d see him step down from the train, and she’d call his name and run to him, as fast as she could, and he’d lift her up and spin her round, just like he’d done on leave, and there’d be crying, and laughing, and the type of kissing that happened after someone you loved had been away for too long, and…and her brother would be there. The three of them would be the only real people on the platform. But instead, it was cold, empty, and getting dark, there were just three other people, and…Madge stepped forward.  
Dennis had only written once since March, just to say he was safely back in Blighty, he was sorry, the arm was painful but getting more manageable, he was sorry, he didn’t want to her to visit in case the sight of some of the injured men unnerved her. She’d thought that odd and somewhat uncharacteristic of the eleven-year-old who’d compared scabby knees with her when she was ten, but Madge could see the real reason, written all over the rest of the paper. In any case, a visit was out of the question; upon reading the letter, Mrs Raleigh had made a disgusted huffing noise, and Madge had hastily grabbed it again for fear that she would throw it in the fire. If it was all she was going to get from him, she’d keep it safe and commit it to memory: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  
He looked so tired, too, and drained; she could see the shadows under his eyes, and she could hear a sly little voice in her head saying: They suit him, don’t they? It’s the Pale and Interesting Look, very fashionable this season. Madge was forced to concede the voice had a point, and that she did indeed want to hold him, and kiss him, and ask him if it hurt very much. He also looked absolutely terrified.  
Finally, after contracting his mouth in a grin resembling a victim of strychnine poisoning, he spoke.  
“…M-Miss Raleigh. It’s you. You’re here.”  
“Yes!! Yes, I am. And so are you. You’re also here. On this platform.”  
“…Why? Are you here. This doesn’t really seem like the sort of place you’d normally…spend your Christmas.”  
“I…ah…I thought the fresh air would do me good.”  
“That is…what I thought too.”  
This was not a grand, sweeping reunion. This was painful.  
“Where are you staying?”  
“Oh…it’s this little place…probably won’t have heard of it…Turnmouth Arms.”  
“That’s where I’m staying too! This is…this is wonderful. How wonderful.”  
“Rather.”  
Madge could see the couple next to them staring at her as though she were wearing a guinea-pig on her hat. Stanhope could see the irritating young woman from the train staring at him as though she had painfully worked out a complicated murder, with him as the culprit.  
“Your…friend?” he finally asked.  
“Oh, erm…this is Miss Renfrew; she is my paid companion, who is…who is accompanying me.” Madge quietly crossed her fingers behind her back, and Frances nodded, keeping up the charade. It had been necessary to convince Madge’s parents to let her go – a well-brought-up young lady travelling with a helpful paid companion sounded much better to them than two young friends traipsing off to the middle of nowhere. And even if her mother was no longer speaking to his father, news could easily spread.  
“Miss Renfrew, this is Mr Stanhope, who I have…mentioned in passing. Yours?” she enquired.  
“This is…this is Mr Trotter and his wife. Mr and Mrs Trotter, this is Miss Raleigh, who I was…acquainted with before the war. Mr Trotter and I…served together.”  
“So did…?” The words tripped and fell in her throat.  
“Yes” came a quick, stiff reply.  
“It’s…it’s terribly nice to see you again, Dennis.”  
“Yes, it’s terribly…it’s…it’s...”  
Stanhope was saved from his apparent malfunctioning by the arrival of a slight, heavily-dressed man on the platform, who announced himself as Mr Singh. His wife was back at the hotel, he explained, making the final arrangements, but in the meantime, he had the pony and cart ready to take them up.  
“You see,” he almost apologized, “You are our very first guests. When I was younger, I briefly took a job at the desk of a grand hotel in Calcutta, and I always rather missed the experience. I still remember checking in Kumar Ranjitsinhji, and getting his autograph – ah, you’ve heard of Ranjitsinhji, young man!”  
Stanhope fought the urge to enquire just what Mr Singh meant by ‘young man’ before remembering that no matter how old a man perceives himself to be on the inside – and he did feel very old, much too old, didn’t anyone see how old he was? – if he is physically twenty-two, with a rather good complexion and an embarrassing inability to grow much facial hair, he is going to be considered ‘young’. And at least this Mr Singh knew who Ranjitsinhji was.  
“Yes, yes I do” he said.  
“Well, sadly the village’s cricket green is”, here Mr Singh paused to find the right word, “currently waterlogged. And I haven’t been invited to bowl on it yet. I bowl. Do you…?”  
“Wicket keeper.”  
“And you, sir…?”  
“I watch. Not really much of a cricket man, myself. Can play a blo – a blooming good game of darts, though.”  
“Well, there’s a dartboard in the hotel. I think. I’m rather sure I remember a dartboard. And golf! Golf, for the ladies. There’s a golf club, nearby. The clubhouse won’t serve you directly, but I’m sure one of these gentlemen could buy on your behalf.”  
There was another long silence, finally broken by Miss Renfrew.  
“I’m…I’m rather awful at most sports. The sports mistress at our – I mean, my old school always used to say I did the team an excellent favour by steering clear of it.” She gave a nervous laugh, and Stanhope glared at her. She seemed exactly the sort of person who would somehow jinx an entire match just by being there. He stopped once he realised that Madge was looking at him with what seemed to be amusement.   
Why the hell was she here?

It was now night-time, and they’d been at the Turnmouth Arms for an hour. Mrs Singh was every bit as kind as her husband, and the moment she’d shown them all to their rooms she’d invited them to have dinner with her at half-past eight. Madge had almost immediately agreed, and then she’d smiled with such giddy enthusiasm that two members of the party had suddenly felt very odd indeed. And then there’d been quite a lot of unpacking to do, which Stanhope insisted he needed no help with whatsoever, and now he was alone in his room with his flask and a nasty pain in his right arm that was seriously interfering with his greatest desire in the world: to strangle Trotter. Trotter had to be behind this in some way, or maybe Dr Willard. He wouldn’t have put it past Miss Renfrew to interfere in some way, the little shrew. If nothing else, in whatever afterlife there was or might be, Stanhope could imagine whatever remained of Osborne, trying very, very hard not to laugh.  
And then there was the little secret. Stanhope dug about in his coat pocket for some time; it seemed especially troublesome and slippery now that…well, now that its original purpose was lying tantalizingly out of reach.  
The ring glinted smugly in the palm of his hand.  
“Well, there’s no need to look at me like that’, Stanhope told it, “I didn’t know she was going to be here, did I?”. He was talking to a useless engagement ring now. Just brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kumar Ranjitsinhji was a famous Indian cricketer from the turn of the 19th/20th century, so back when Stanhope was a teeny-tiny child. The thought of tiny pre-schooler Stanhope is equal parts adorable and terrifying, tbh. A is for Anguish, B is for Boredom, C is for Cricket, D is for Don't Call Me Dennis, etc.  
> All the bits in this fanfiction written from a female perspective are dedicated to an Anne McD. from Schenectady, who wrote into the Motion Picture magazine in 1932 to complain about the lack of women in films. She mentioned Journey's End, saying that while she enjoyed it very much, and she knew it was set in St Quentin in 1918, it was a total sausage-fest. Anne, I hear you, and this seems the best way of rectifying that problem without getting up on stage during a production and singing 'Take Me Out' by Franz Ferdinand.


	3. The Fictitious Adventures of David Scunthorpe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which alcohol conspires against Stanhope's better judgement. Again.

Madge gave a cough. Then another one, until Frances, who had been resolutely reading her book, finally looked up, and momentarily forgot how to breathe.  
“That is a…that is a lovely dress.” Frances made herself stammer, “Lovely lavender colour. Like the…I like the…flowy-ness of it all.”  
“Oh, thank you so much!” Madge beamed, and then her twinkly smile was replaced with something altogether more conspiratorial, “And if say…you were a young man…who had previously made my acquaintance…and seemed somewhat taken with me…would you be impressed? What would you say?”  
“Well,” blustered Frances, getting the use of her voice back, “If I were a young man…who presumably bears no resemblance to any persons alive or dead, I would say…I would say ‘Oh, dash it, Miss Raleigh, you look positively ripping in that dress, and I would love to take you by the hand and watch the cricket with you, or my name isn’t…David Scunthorpe’!”  
“That is not what he sounds like!” Madge protested, “Or at least, he wouldn’t sound like that if he existed. Though if he did exist, he would have actually seen this dress before, and he would have definitely complimented me in it. Because if I had worn the dress before, it would probably have been when this fictional Mr Scunthorpe of whom you speak would have been home on leave.”  
“And what would you have done with the totally non-existent Mr Scunthorpe?” asked Frances, catching on.  
“If I had indeed met up with this young man you’ve created,” Madge said, rouging her lips, “We would probably have gone to the Brighton Music Hall, and danced all evening, and I would have felt the envy of every young woman that might have been in town. And presumably, we would have talked, and kissed quite a bit, and found somewhere quiet where no-one would see…” her voice trailed off, as though dreaming.  
“Margaret Raleigh, you are wicked! And Mam’zelle always said you were such a nice young lady!”  
This seemed to snap Madge back, and she grinned like a cat.  
“Don’t tell Mam’zelle what I didn’t do. Oh, good Lord, mustn’t forget the gloves! Mother would go spare if I didn’t wear gloves to dinner.”  
“I thought you weren’t going to care what your mother thought of you this whole holiday? That was what you told me when we set off this morning.”  
“Well, I wasn’t going to, but…she’s been insisting I wear them in polite company ever since I came home and she found out how rough my hands had gotten! And if say…a certain imaginary David Scunthorpe were to perhaps hold my hands at some point…”  
“Then I hope to God he wouldn’t care – they’re still your hands, and if he couldn’t see that, he wouldn’t deserve to look at them, much less hold them.”  
“You’re a wonderful friend, Frances,” and Frances suddenly felt ten feet tall, “but I think I’ll leave them on for now. Come on, let’s get down to dinner, or they’ll start without us.”

Again, the reality of the dress was something of a let-down. Madge certainly glowed with pride when Dennis said she looked ‘…very nice’, but a small part of her, a tiny part of her – a bad, shameful part of her for not being happy with what she had – thought it would have been even nicer if he hadn’t looked as though he had just gotten up from sitting on a cactus when saying it. There were other things she wanted, as well, but they were best not put into words. She didn’t notice how he was clutching his glass, but the memory of it tucked itself away in her mind, waiting for the right time. And she certainly didn’t notice Mr Trotter hissing to him, ‘I swear I’ve never met her before!’, because that would imply…well, that would imply that Dennis didn’t want to see her again. Which was silly. That champagne Mr Singh was offering her was looking very tempting…

“More potatoes, Mrs Trotter?”  
“I’m sorry, Mrs Singh, I couldn’t possibly. I’m stuffed to absolute pieces. You have the last one, go on.”  
“Well, at the very least, may I offer you the champagne?”  
“Oh, go on then. Just a little. Bit more. There. Thank you. Thank you very much.”  
This was the longest conversation of the evening so far. Mr Singh appeared to have developed a nervous tic: a sort of nod, and then a tiny ‘ha’ whenever someone caught his eye. Trotter and Frances had both independently started taking absent sips of their champagne at every awkward exchange between their friends. And the drink was starting to take effect on Stanhope, making him just s-l-i-g-h-t-l-y less mechanical. He still looked as though he was staring through the tablecloth, though.  
“Does it hurt?... The arm?” This was the cue for Trotter to finish his glass and pour another.  
“On occasion. It’s to be expected, really.” Frances would follow suit.  
“Still, I suppose that…”  
“You suppose that what?”  
“Well…I don’t know really.”  
Trotter thought, only slightly indignantly, that this sort of remark would have earned him a ‘Well, why did you say anything, then?’, rather than a distracted nod, but quickly started smirking; you didn’t need to be tortured with the terrible weight of imagination, or whatever it was, to know exactly what kind of relationship they had had. Jackrabbits, Trotter said to himself, but then he thought a bit longer and wondered if he and Ellie would be any different, with what amounted to a bomb-timer over their heads at twenty. It didn’t seem entirely likely.  
The Trotters yawned simultaneously, and they and the Singhs took this as a prompt to go to bed. Feeling sorry for him, Trotter asked Stanhope if he was feeling particularly tired, and was promptly told to stop fussing.  
“I’m absolutely fine, I tell you! I couldn’t be less tired if I tried!”

Stanhope had decided upon denial as a drinking partner, and it was going very well. He was more than capable of holding a pleasant after-dinner conversation with two nice young ladies who were equally sober.  
“So…when the two of you last saw each other…did you go all the way to Scunthorpe?”  
“Fra – I mean, Miss Renfrew!”  
“What’s she talking about? What’s Scunthorpe got to do with anything?”

He was more than capable of making sure the conversation was suitable for ladies’ ears.  
“Well, hold on, I think I remember the story…ah yes, the Humorous Ruin Shaped Like A…Man’s Genitals.”  
“Oh, my friend Anne – from when I was a VAD – she said she’d seen a ruin like…that! She was always terribly funny!”

And above all, there would be no flirting involved whatsoever.  
“Gosh…Frances…can you imagine what Mam’zelle would say…if she knew I was in a hotel practic’ly on my own…” Madge’s smile was horribly infectious.  
“Drinking with a soldier!” said Miss Renfrew, in a mock gasp.  
“Not just any soldier, Frances…a Captain!” Madge giggled, “Doesn’t that sound splendid…cap-tain, cap-tain…terribly dashing, like your coat…”  
“I’ve got a coat!” Miss Renfrew protested, “Hold on, I’ll get it!”, and she ran off upstairs.  
“Cap-tain.”  
“Captain.”  
“Cap-tain…”  
Madge seemed a lot closer now. She was laughing to herself, quietly, and she looked so happy and contented. She leaned even closer…  
“I’ve got the coat!” Miss Renfrew, standing at the top of the staircase in her winter coat, striking what was clearly meant to be a serious pose, had saved him.   
“Oh, I say, Frances, don’t you look a picture!” exclaimed Madge, and Miss Renfrew seemed to blush very heavily, “Dennis, don’t you think Frances looks a picture?”  
“Rather.”  
“Rather, he says! Oh, Frances, dear, you look awfully tired, and you’ve had such a long day!”  
“Oh, I have!” said Frances, “I got up at practic’ly the crack of dawn, and I took the train from Brighton to Lyndhurst, and I walked to your house –”  
“And you talked to my parents!” Madge interrupted.  
“– And I talked to your parents, and then we got the Lyndhurst to London, and from there…” Frances wandered off in search of her room.  
“Poor dear” sighed Madge, “She’s had a frightful time of it – I take it you’ve worked out that we knew each other before all this?”  
“I had some idea.” Stanhope admitted truthfully. It was oddly nice being alone with Madge again, though he was fairly certain that was due to the alcohol.

“We sort of knew each other at school – we talked occasionally, but nothing much.” Madge began to explain, “And then, of course, war broke out, and I decided to join the Land Army because you know I never can just stand around waiting – I knew I’d simply go mad if I didn’t keep busy. Well, Frances managed to end up as a VAD, and I think she only stopped when her brother was killed – he was her twin brother, a 2nd Lieutenant – and her parents called her home. That’s…that’s what we have in common. Only then, I think, there might have been some sort of falling-out, or something – she won’t tell me – and she left one morning and started living in Brighton. And the thing was, after – after I was called home, I took to taking the train there, just to get away from it all, and one day I saw her in a little teashop, and I had to say ‘hallo’, and that’s really where we properly became friends. Because in our own way, we both went through something, and we both…we both lost something, and I think we grew older. …You know all about growing older, don’t you?”  
“Yes. Yes, I do.”  
She was now agonizingly close.  
“Got off the train, waited for Mr Singh – I went the wrong way, my room’s down this corridor! – got on the pony and trap…”  
“Goodnight, Frances! Silly thing…d’you know, when we were at school together…I used to tell them all about you…how you didn’t like sugar in your tea, silly things like that…and I was always so proud of you – you must have been so brave…”  
They barely made it back to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was rather pushed on to finish this chapter by something that happened this week. Can't think what it was.  
> To any Americans reading this, I am so so sorry.  
> But anyway, I was pushed on to write this because in these past few days, I've begun to feel rather a lot older than I did before. And it is my hope that this story will reach someone in a dark place, who may feel their world is changing and that they are changing too, and that they will know that there is always hope, and that there will always be people that love them, and that it will always get better. (This isn't the final chapter, it's about halfway through, but still.)  
> Never give up. Never think you're better off dead. Never think you're too far gone.


	4. Swine, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roll up, roll up, to see a heavily traumatised war veteran get punched in the stomach!  
> Oh yes, it's finally that chapter.

He didn’t particularly know who he was – that seemed to be a good thing. He was in a room – a bedroom – a bed. His head hurt in a different way to his arm – he remembered that his arm hurt a lot whenever he woke up, but he couldn’t remember why, and that was a good thing too. His shirt was on – his trousers were hanging resolutely onto one ankle. As he reached in vain to pull them up, he realised he was not alone. There was a woman – a really lovely woman – she’d been so kind to him, she’d kissed him, and reached inside and opened up doors and filled cracks and run through the bombed-out ruins and – oh, bugger it. Dennis Stanhope’s arm had been injured on the worst day of his life, when he’d seen his good friend die, and instead of being a gentleman and politely breaking off the engagement with Jimmy’s sister and letting her have a good life without him, he’d bloody well slept with her. He needed a drink.  
It wasn’t that there was anything particularly regrettable about sleeping with Madge, per se, Stanhope thought as he quietly gathered his jacket from the floor. On the contrary, he’d felt the happiest he’d been in well over a year. And Madge was still as lovely as she’d ever been, and if it had really been up to him, if anything in his life was ever up to him, he’d have happily stayed in bed until she woke up, and then he wouldn’t have let go ever again and – no. Wrong. Bad. It was still true that Madge was lovely, but she was sleeping, peacefully and contentedly, and he was neither sleeping, nor peaceful, nor content. She needed Better.

Stanhope crept down the stairs, unsure of where precisely he was supposed to be going. Catching himself on the landing mirror, he quickly tried to scrape off what appeared to be a smear of pink on his neck. He looked like death warmed over. He felt even worse. He was now quite well aware that before him stood two choices, equally reprehensible. On the one hand, he could pretend none of this had ever happened. It would not only break Madge’s heart in two, it would be the absolute height of dishonour – you didn’t do that to a girl, especially such a nice one. On the other hand, they could marry…and whatever happiness they might have had together would be gradually drowned in whiskey and regret. He had a choice – one large, quick heartbreak versus a series of small ones spread out through the years, and he knew exactly which one he’d choose for himself. Not that he ever got to choose, of course. Yes, this would be a kindness, doing it all quickly. One thing was certain though: he couldn’t afford to drink around her again, unless he wanted to repeat the experience. Actually, repeating the experience wouldn’t have been too bad – no. No alcohol. Remember what you said you’d do when you got back, you utter coward.  
“So there you are!” Madge was coming down the stairs now, smiling shyly - oh dear God, he couldn’t do this. His stomach was spinning like a sycamore leaf. Somewhere, in some parallel universe, he was smiling back, and he could move his right arm up to touch her face. All he could do in this one was mutter a ‘Goodmorning’ and walk briskly up the stairs before she could reply. He was a coward. Then again, if such a large proportion of their relationship hadn’t played out via a series of increasingly sparse and worried letters, maybe they’d be better at talking face-to-face, instead of seesawing between barely making eye contact and…last night. 

No, none of that mattered. One thing an eighteen-year-old 2nd Lieutenant Stanhope had, quite stupidly really, believed, was that he was fighting in this war to keep the people he loved safely away from it, with a rather heavy emphasis on Madge. He still clung onto this idea out of sentimentality more than anything else – he couldn’t keep anyone safe from something lodged as deeply inside him as the shrapnel had ever been. He couldn’t turn around and read Madge’s expression, for fear of breaking and going back, but he was almost certain that however much it hurt her, she was better off this way.

Madge gestured toward him silently for a few seconds, then quietly sat down. She didn’t know for how long she had been staring at the pattern of the carpet by the time a grey-faced Frances shyly sat beside her.  
“So…how was the trip to Scunthorpe?” Frances grinned conspiratorially, until her smile faltered at the look on her friend’s face.  
“It…it was lovely” Madge said dully, “I thought that – that it would be as lovely as before all this…that he’d tell me he loved me again, and he did, he really did, but – he just looked straight through me, and if you don’t mind –” and here she got up, to Frances’ brief protest “I should very much like to be on my own for now, just for a little. I’m sure it’s nothing, that I’m being very silly.”

And with that she walked calmly up the stairs, and inside Frances Renfrew, a mixture of anger and sympathy bubbled together to create a stream of righteous fury directed at Dennis Bloody Stupid Stanhope. She could just about come to terms with him being right for Madge, that was fine, she would have understood if he had politely turned away from her friend beforehand, but to treat her so poorly after all she had been through for him, after…that – well, Madge probably couldn’t be angry with him if she tried, but Frances had no such qualms anymore. 

Eventually, with nothing else to occupy her time, she settled on the sofa and began to read from a newspaper she’d brought back in London. There was an interesting bit about how the Bolsheviks seemed to be getting on in Russia, and how the German blockade was continuing. Out of habit, Frances checked the section devoted to jobs, but found that the administrative positions were once again being offered to ‘bright young men’. She began to wonder about enquiring up at the hospital; she was used to stressful work of the sort – or maybe even getting a scholarship and finally going to university. It had always seemed unfair to her that Freddie would have ended up going to Oxford or Cambridge, despite having no real fondness for lessons, but she would be forced to host teas with her mother until she married off. Still, that was behind her now. Frances liked to think she was good at putting things behind her and – oh, that cricket-playing bastard was coming down the stairs. Stupid blue-eyed Golden Boy who didn’t take sugar in his tea. To her immense disgust, he sat down in the nearby chair, where he began to brood heavily.  
From here, there began a short battle of attrition between the two parties. Stanhope let out a long sigh from the echoing pits deep within. Frances drew a sharp intake of breath that managed to convey hatred without any words. Stanhope stared darkly through the coffee table until he could see through the floor, right into the cold dark earth. Frances glared at him from her newspaper and pulled a face at him until he finally looked up, at which point she panicked and abruptly turned it into a sneeze.

“Is there something you’d like to say, perhaps?” The tone of Stanhope’s voice could have cut through a wooden door.

Frances faltered, as the Frances Renfrews of the world are fated to do when faced with the Dennis Stanhopes. But they ultimately carry on, regardless, and she finally said “Erm…I…I resent the way you’ve treated my…my good friend.” It was all she could do to stop herself apologizing. He took offense anyway.

“Now you listen here,” and for a moment Stanhope could have sworn Miss Renfrew shifted form into that swine Hibbert (what had happened to Hibbert?) “I have reasons for doing what I did – reasons I don’t have to share with a single soul. Certainly not you.”  
“Oh, I don’t doubt you have reasons why you treated her poorly…” The words were muttered out before Frances could stop them. Stanhope stood up, and she could see his hands shake slightly in rage.  
“I don’t have to take this, you damned shrew! You think – you think I don’t care!”  
“Well…yes. I think you don’t care.”  
“How dare you! I have – I have thought about that girl every bloody day since I went out there – I saw things a fellow should never have to see, things you couldn’t imagine, and believe me, I’m the worse for it – how the hell can you look at me, trying to keep her safe from all of that – and think I don’t care?!”  
In a desperate bid to take back the damage she had done, Frances stood up and tried to sympathise with him.  
“Look, Mr Stanhope…I know it was absolutely horrible out there, believe me, I was a nurse, I’ve seen things too, but you haven’t asked–” Stanhope cut her off.  
“Oh. Oh, of course. You were a nurse, were you? How simply splendid, how positively ripping. I’m certain it was all a lovely adventure for you, all the dead and dying men around you, and you could come home whenever you’d had your fill, maybe with the address of some poor fellow with a suitably heroic–” 

Stanhope did not fully register the punch to the stomach until his knees had buckled beneath him and he could no longer breathe. For her part, Frances did not register punching him until she saw him collapsed on the floor in front of her. She almost immediately regretted it.  
“Oh dear God, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!” Frances spluttered, “Here, let me help you up – just lie on the sofa like – oh Jesus Christ I–”  
“You – you’re fine…” Stanhope wheezed, “Tell you the truth…rather think I had that one coming…”  
“No, no, I was an absolute beast to you!” Frances was now awkwardly hovering over him as he clambered back onto the sofa.  
“Was hardly better myself…you’re right about…about…I was an absolute swine to Madge…couldn’t think of another way to do it…didn’t have to insult you like that…”  
“If it helps,” Frances said ruefully, “I suppose I did become a nurse because I thought it would be a bit more interesting than what I was used to.”  
“That makes two of us.” Stanhope grinned, “And to – and to keep people safe and do my bit, of course.”  
“Oh yes,” agreed Frances, “My brother Freddie – he was always the reckless one, and I was quiet, and dependable, and dull. When he got sent out, I promised my parents I’d go with him – make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. I didn’t see him after we parted ways in London. He was killed a year ago, going over the top, as you do. And my parents called me back home – honestly, I could have stayed, I felt like I could finally breathe – and I realised just how much I’d changed. I had to stop myself from swearing in my every-day speech, and suddenly the thought of marrying some nice young man carefully vetted by Mama and Papa wasn’t just unappealing – I had nightmares from it. The things I heard from some of the other girls…and I felt trapped, like a bug. So one morning I wrote a polite note, and I walked away, and I got on a train to Brighton, because that was where I used to go as a child for holidays, and I haven’t been back since. They haven’t tried to find me.”  
“So you know, then,” Stanhope said, sitting up, “What it’s like to come back from all that, and feel simply…different.”  
“It’s a bloody pisser, pardoning my language.”  
“Rather. But now you can understand – I can’t ever go back to Madge, no matter how much I might like to – and I would like to, believe me. There’s nothing I’d like more, but…I…I can’t stop drinking.”  
“I’d guessed. It’s awfully understandable.”  
“Oh, I know, but that doesn’t make it the right thing, does it? And besides, I’m simply not the fellow Madge thought I was, and I’m beginning to see that I never can be again. My temper’s only gotten worse and I – I couldn’t bear it if want the people I…I love…were afraid of me. Or ashamed.”

Frances was about to reply when she realised that Madge had just approached the top of the staircase. She’d gotten changed – what a lovely pale green dress, didn’t it go well with her lovely coppery hair, wasn’t she just lovely? – but she still looked a bit…uncertain. Frances remembered herself, then realised her unlikely new friend was having no such luck doing the same. She nudged his leg lightly with her boot.  
Stanhope decided that the best course of action was to say everything necessary in one long freight-train of a sentence.  
“Madge,” he began, “I – I’m frightfully sorry for the way I treated you just recently; Miss Renfrew has rather set me straight on how badly you must feel, and whilst I completely understand if you never forgive me–” Her face was lightening as he went on. It was oddly satisfying to watch.  
“What? No, no!” Madge interrupted, “This was my fault, Dennis, I was…I was much too forward–”  
“Absolutely not! None of this has ever been your fault! I…I…I mean…” He’d run out of words. How had he managed to make her think this? Dear God, he was terrible for her, he knew it.  
“I couldn’t bear if I’d pushed you away by being silly like that” Madge continued, “But look, Frances and I were going to look at the golf course that Mr Singh mentioned yesterday, and then afterwards possibly venture further into the town to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. You’re welcome to come, and so are Mr and Mrs Trotter – they seem like lovely people. Oh, I’m not being forward again, am I?”  
And the sweet, hopeful smile worked its way inside. Again.  
“Of course not! And golf would be…would be simply topping!” Topping? Topping?!  
“Well, in that case, I’ll meet you down here in an hour. I can’t wait!” And Madge walked briskly up the stairs again, knowing deep down she still hadn’t figured out what was wrong, what had made Dennis so…forlorn.

Frances was facing a moral quandary based on how best to save the relationship of the girl she…she fancied…a bit, but loved as a friend more, without awkwardly revealing just why her young man seemed so standoffish. 

And the lack of alcohol was starting to creep in around Stanhope, who could hear a little voice in the corner of his mind – ‘You really are sweet on her, old chap, as much as you’d hate to admit it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao get rekt Stanhope.  
> There will be more Trotter next chapter, I promise.  
> Also, have you all heard the news about the upcoming film adaptation with Sam Claflin and Asa Butterfield? What do you think? Is Claflin too old and too blond to play a 21-year-old brunette? Would it be acceptable to make memes?


	5. A Spot of Golf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanhope attempts to go cold turkey. It goes as well as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the time delay on this - there was university and Christmas and visiting family and New Years, and visiting friends, and I got to hold a live baby, and I wasn't sure how long this chapter should go on for, and...let's just get on with it, shall we?

An hour and a half later, and a small procession of five was making its way grimly up to the Turnmouth Golf and Country Club in the bitter cold. Trotter’s suggestion of a little sing-along had been abruptly shot down, to no-one’s surprise, but he had at last found an audience for his gardening plans in Madge, who was telling him about extended crop rotation in return. Mrs Trotter was unloading sandwiches onto a rather appreciative Frances. This left Stanhope to take up the rear and contemplate life in general. He was good at that.  
Why did Madge have to be so damned persuasive? Why couldn’t he just keep his bloody head around her? Why was her laugh simultaneously the loudest he’d ever heard and the most enjoyable? And why wasn’t any of it enough to stop him from thinking about alcohol? More to the point, why did he have to ruin a perfectly nice bit of admiration for a really nice girl by fixating on his own personal failures? It was like he wanted to be miserable!  
Stanhope continued the sustained assault on his own sense of self-worth all the way up until the third hole – why the hell had he even agreed to go to a golf course? He only had the use of one arm! It wasn’t even the arm he liked! Oh, that was right. He was in love. A bloody inconvenience for the both of them – hold on, when had love entered the equation? When had it shifted from simply ‘liking’ her an awful lot to outright, full-blown love? It had happened last night, hadn’t it? Damn her, damn her, simply damn her. She gave him such a confidence about doing things – and look where that had gotten him. But it wasn’t her fault. It couldn’t be. It had to be his fault, he knew that much. His throat was starting to dry up.   
Madge was certainly a very…enthusiastic golfer. She’d always been quite strong considering how small she was – as a child, she’d once bet him she could lift him off the ground, and promptly delivered. That had been ten years and a considerable growth spurt ago, and of course Stanhope felt much heavier – oh, for Christ’s sake, could he not go five minutes without wallowing in his own misery? She was an enthusiastic golfer who tended to miss her shots by several metres and it was ridiculously endearing and that was all he had to say on the matter.  
“You alright there, skipper?” At least Trotter was here, and could be counted on to distract him.  
“Absolutely fine” Stanhope said, with what he hoped was a breezy tone, “How’s the golf?”  
“Not going great, if I’m honest” Trotter responded grimly, “You’re lucky to be out of it. Oh, wait, sorry – bit insensitive, there. Forgot you used to like all that cricket before –” he gestured to the almost-useless right arm, which Stanhope moved slightly in response.  
“Oh, no, it’s fine – I take it Ma- Miss Raleigh told you about that?”  
“No, skipper, you did. You got very drunk one night at Valennes, and tried to explain the rules to me, and then you just sort of stopped and went ‘Ai saiy, whot hay beastly fewl Ai’ve been – ahn’t wee orl sew fraightfolly smawl?’ and then you went to sleep.” And Osborne put a blanket over you, and we didn’t look at each other for the rest of the night, but we both thought, Oh dear God, he’s a kid, really. The last sentence was left unsaid.  
“Oh yeah, and your Miss Raleigh and her brother – they both told me. Quite a bit. The young’un told me you made him awful keen on cricket. Oh Lord, sorry – keep on bringing all that stuff up.”  
“Trotter! It’s honestly fine. If you must know, I’m trying to be less bad-tempered. I don’t know whether it’s showing. Have a smoke?”  
“Don’t mind if I do. You want to offer a cigarette to Miss Raleigh? Or have you already done that?”  
“Trotter?”  
“Yes?”  
“Are you testing my resolve to be less bad-tempered?”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it, skipper. Only you did get defensive rather quick over nothing.”  
Stanhope stubbed his cigarette out against a suitably large, round bush and gave Trotter a glare so strong it was almost audible, to make sure he got the message. Clearly some people didn’t appreciate his efforts to be a more affable person. Still, that was no excuse for giving up. Naturally, when Madge somehow managed to hit her ball so hard it flew down into the forest on the edge of the course, it was only right that he help her look for it.   
Thankfully for Stanhope, Trotter was far too busy to notice, having hit himself quite firmly into the sand. As he swung vainly, Mrs Trotter and Frances slowly stopped what they were doing to watch.  
“I’m barely moving a centimetre at a bloody time!” Trotter puffed to his audience, “It’s like being back at the bleeding Front!”  
“If only there was a photographer here, Alfred!” his wife called out to him, “I’d hang this up over the fireplace!”  
“You see,” Trotter said indignantly, “This is not exactly the sort of wifely support you’d expect upon seeing your husband in…in deep distress. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were completely put off of marriage, Sta…nhope. Where’s he got to?”  
“I think he went off that way, dear. With…oh, bugger. That nice girl – Miss – whatsherface – Raleigh – the one he’s sweet on. And they…well, I got the impression that…” Ellie Trotter trailed off, and looked to Miss Renfrew for confirmation.   
She nodded, grimly.  
“They wouldn’t do it again, would they?”  
And then:  
“They’re doing it right now, aren’t they?”

“Oh my, that is frightfully long!” Madge gasped, “But will it do the job?”  
“I should think so,” muttered Stanhope, from where he was crouching next to the bush, “I should think you’ll need a lot of poking to get that golf ball out from where it’s wedged.”  
“And are you OK to do that, with your arm?”  
“Perfectly fine. So long as I don’t move it about too – agh, fu-dge!” He winced heavily.   
“You poor thing! No, you mustn’t trouble yourself on my account – you’ve done far too much of that already – just sit on that log for a bit and I’ll try and get the golf ball out – little bastard…”  
That was another odd thing about Madge – she fussed a lot over him, and asked a lot of questions, but it seemed more affectionate than patronising, though Stanhope was certain it had to be out of pity. He couldn’t stand being fussed over at all: as a child he’d driven his mother to distraction by getting up and out of bed when he’d had a bad cold, and he’d never had much patience with going to sleep, but the daydream of Madge sitting beside him in a nice warm bed and talking as she was doing now was definitely pleasant, not just because it contained the possibility of sex. He wasn’t keen on people being close, either, but Madge felt…comfortable, and safe. She couldn’t stop the withdrawal symptoms – Stanhope was now feeling distinctly nauseous –, or the bad temper, and she probably couldn’t stop the occasional night terrors, but that dreadful distance he sometimes got from himself wasn’t too bad. He was very definitely here, for better or for worse.  
“And…just a bit further…oh, bloody hell…hold on for a second…got it! Ha!” Madge said triumphantly, brushing a twig from her hair, “You know, you’ve got a lovely smile sometimes…”  
Stanhope swallowed ineffectually, and pulled back his mouth further to recreate the effect, against his better judgment. He was really starting to need a drink. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest.  
“Oh, you’re shivering too, then!” Madge exclaimed in relief, “Do you think the others would mind awfully if we went indoors to warm up? Just for five minutes, or my fingers will drop off.” She raised her gloves, as if to show him. Was there anything about this woman that wasn’t heart-crunchingly lovely? Well, yes, there had to be, but it just didn’t seem to matter! In an irony completely lost on Stanhope, he could look at her, see the imperfections, the foul mouth, the recklessness, the second-guessing, and think ‘Oh, that makes you who you are, and I wouldn’t particularly want to change that about you’. Then again, it had to be said that none of Madge’s flaws were slowly killing her. Her hands were shaking from the cold, not from alcohol withdrawal and mental ill health.   
He followed her up the path because his legs seemed to be working entirely separate to his brain, which didn’t really register where he was going. This would prove to be a mistake.

“I’m beginning to think I might not be a very good paid companion”, said Frances mildly.  
“Because you can’t stop your charge from…?” Mrs Trotter trailed off.  
“Having secret rendezvous with entirely unsuitable young men, yes.”  
“Entirely unsuitable?!” Trotter felt compelled to defend Stanhope against this detractor, because after spending enough time with him, you inevitably ended up becoming oddly protective of him. It was only after the first time you had to stop him from attempting to walk across No Man’s Land with nothing but his own sense of drama to protect him that you could properly complain about the little turd.   
“I don’t think he’s unsuitable for her!” explained Frances, “Her mother, on the other hand, is not exactly keen on Mr Stanhope.”  
“Look, apart from the occasional short temper, and fondness for drinking, my friend is quite possibly the most…suitable person I’ve ever met. He told me he charmed the pants off her parents – got her father’s blessing and everything! Why the he-heck would they not be keen on him?”  
“I can’t say – I’ve only met Mr and Mrs Raleigh once. It might be a family falling-out, it might be income differences, it might be fear of abandonment. But from what Miss Raleigh has told me, the most likely solution is…is that…”  
“He was with her brother when he got killed. They think he killed that kid. He didn’t – he couldn’t have. You – they didn’t see what he looked like just after – he looked dead himself.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Not your fault. Not his fault either, though. You know, he’s got this funny thing he does whenever someone’s ticked him off – he says he’s ‘going to have words with him’. Knowing Stanhope, at least one of those words is ‘swine’, usually, he likes it. Never seen the point of it till I heard about his in-laws just now. I’d be interested in having words with them, I would.”  
“I’m not sure that’d do much good, Alf,” interjected Ellie, “I don’t even say this to wind you up, you’re not exactly the sort of presence that would endear young Mr Stanhope to Lord and Lady Hoity-Toity. They are hoity-toity, right?”  
“Oh yes, very. Mr Raleigh doesn’t say much, but Mrs Raleigh has this way of making you feel like dirt scraped from her shoes.”  
“Wonder they’ve turned out such nice kids.”  
“Indeed.”

On the way to the clubhouse, Madge began to properly worry about Dennis. He was never normally worried or shy, or at least he never showed it to her. His smile was small and pale; it barely reached his cheeks, let alone his eyes, which seemed glazed over. He was swallowing as if he had just gotten over a bad cold. Madge was beginning to fear he might try and propose marriage to her. And while she wanted that to happen very much, now did not seem the right time.  
She finally understood what had been making him so strange when they got inside the clubhouse, and saw the drinks on display, and suddenly, all the nervous tics made such sad sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't know if you've seen this or not, but apparently RC Sherriff wrote an unfinished sequel script to Journey's End, featuring Stanhope, Trotter and Madge! I am not making this up, I swear. It was unfinished because film companies felt it was a bit depressing watching Stanhope be grumpy in England rather than doing all sorts of brave war-hero-y stuff in France (even though the whole plot of Journey's End is that he can't actually do anything but sit around and get plastered, so maybe Sherriff and the producers had different ideas of what a happy ending for him looks like).
> 
> Also, the film has decided to give Sam Claflin a ridiculous looking moustache that makes Stanhope look like a bad 80s pornstar. From henceforth, he shall be known as Stachehope. Stachehope and Journey's Ender's Game.
> 
> And another thing: do you know what a stupid name Dennis is? Do you know how hard it is to write that with a romantic inflection? Especially because it makes me think of Margaret and Dennis Thatcher, and...ew.


	6. You Deserve Nice Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY is this chapter the emotional equivalent of a kick in the junk!!!! Quite short though.

“Dennis?...Do you need to have a drink?” He was paler than she’d ever seen him, and his left hand was now visibly shaking. He stared at her as though she’d stepped on his cat.  
“It’s OK…I understand…you’ve been very brave, but look, if you just sit down here…”  
“No…I can’t…I have to…I have to be – it’s something…” The words weren’t coming out, and what was more, people were starting to turn around and look. Under normal circumstances, Stanhope would have asked them what the hell they were looking at, but…oh God. He sat down, and they turned back to their – back to their drinks.  
He wasn’t sure where the beer came from, but there was a bottle and a glass in front of him suddenly, and he pushed it away. He was aware of a man – one leg – war injury? – gunfiregunfiregunfire – limping away, and again, he wanted to say he didn’t need anyone’s pity, least of all – oh God, not you.

Once he’d walked out of the pub, his head started to clear with the cold, but he knew he needed to keep walking. Keep walking and not stop and not listen to Madge calling behind him because he was stupid enough to turn around, and – and why should he turn around? What right did she have to forgive him, anyway? How dare she? How dare she look at him, and know about his drinking, and still think he was a decent fellow? How dare she when he couldn’t? It was – no, you’re not here, you’re DEAD, so if you and your sister would leave me the hell alone–

“Why the absolute FUCK are you still trying to run away, Dennis?!” Madge shouted at him. Stanhope finally turned around.  
“Why are you still trying to stop me?!” he replied, as coldly as he could. It wasn’t very cold.  
“Because this isn’t what you do! Look, my parents mightn’t speak to me except to remind me to smile, but you’ve always been so…honourable!”  
“Don’t you get it? Isn’t it obvious? I’m being honourable! This is the right thing to do! This is me making sure you don’t have to spend the rest of your life picking up my messes! Please, for the love of God, just give up on me, won’t you? You’ve got enough to cry over, please, don’t add me into the bargain, just please, give up, you deserve better, you know you do…give up.”  
“No! I won’t! My brother’s…” here Madge paused for a few seconds, working up the courage, “My brother is dead! Jimmy is dead! He’s dead, he’s dead, and it is a beastly thing that I’m not allowed to be sad about it! You’re the only person who knew him – who seems to think I’ve the right to be sad about any of this! I’ve lost my brother, I feel like I’ve lost my parents – I don’t want to lose you too. I just want to see you safe.”  
“And what about the drinking? I can’t…I can’t function anymore if I haven’t had a drink in so long – I start remembering things that I can’t bear to remember; I can’t hold down a job. At least, I’m fairly certain I can’t. I’m short-tempered, perpetually drunk, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night seeing Jimmy at the foot of my bed, and my right arm doesn’t work like it should any more. Don’t you think you deserve better?”  
“And what about you, Dennis?”  
“What on earth do you mean, what about me? I’ve just told you about me!” Stanhope was perplexed.  
“What do you deserve? I’ve read Jimmy’s last letter over and over again – he talks about you, you know.”  
“Yes.”  
“He said how wonderful you are. How everyone looks up to you – him especially.”  
“…Yes.”  
“He said how tired you looked. How you’ve never let that stop you from doing what needed to be done. And I know you were with him when he died, and I’m sure – I know that you made him as happy as he could have been. Don’t you think you deserve some good things as well?”  
“Yes, but-”  
“You need to be around someone who cares for you. You need to know you’re worth something. I need to be around someone who will let me be sad when I want to be. I need to know I’m wanted. I’d say we both deserve each other. Wouldn’t you?”  
“…Yes.”  
“That’s good. Now can you please give me a hug, because I’ve a feeling we’re both about to cry.”  
“Yes, I think we are.”  
The hug lasted for a very long time, and there was indeed quite a lot of crying. Neither one was entirely sure who said ‘I miss him’, or who told the other one ‘You’ve been so very brave’. Both were happy not knowing. In fact, both felt a lot lighter, a lot warmer, a lot more comfortable than either had in a long time. Their heartbeats didn’t beat as one, and Stanhope’s right arm did not magically start to move, nor did he stop wanting a drink. And that was fine. They were not made for each other, because as a general rule, people are not made for other people.   
But they could make it work.

“And I’m still tremendously proud of you, you know,” Madge’s muffled voice came from where she had tucked herself under his chin, “You don’t think our little reunion is inconveniencing any golfers, do you?”  
“Absolutely not”, Stanhope replied, “You’re always so considerate; you put me to shame.”  
“Oh, now,” Madge said, the mischief returning to her voice, “You may like to pretend that you are a complete and utter bad-tempered stoic, Dennis Stanhope, but underneath it all, you are an absolute lamb.”  
“I am not a lamb. You take that back.”  
“No.”  
“I mean it, take it back.”  
“Make me.”  
“Oh, very well, I – oh, hello, Trotter. Mrs Trotter. Miss Renfrew.”

The three interlopers smiled innocently.  
“Thought we’d come and look for you, since you’d wandered off” Mrs Trotter explained.  
“And I am frightfully pleased nothing bad’s happened to either of you!” Frances said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, “Because, obviously, as your paid companion…I trust you both.”  
“Yes,” beamed Madge, “Besides, that would be entirely irresponsible of us to get into any sort of trouble – wouldn’t it, Dennis?” she asked sweetly of an increasingly reddening Stanhope.  
“Almost as silly as saying things to get a reaction out of people, isn’t it?” responded Frances, even more sweetly.

Frances loved Madge far more as a friend than a sweetheart, and was genuinely happy for them both. Practically the only thing she loved more than seeing her friend smile was getting a full night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been several months of writing this fic. The word 'swine' has lost all meaning. The end is now in sight. One more chapter to go!  
> Tried very hard to write Straight People Hurt/Comfort without falling into the Pit of Manpain. Hope it worked.


	7. Loose Ends and New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't believe it's the final chapter. It's mostly an epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three words for you: Treat. Yo. Self. Treat Yo Self 1918!!!

It would be very nice to say that that saw the end of Stanhope’s problems; that his mind was cleared of all bad thoughts for the rest of his life. In reality, that night Madge was woken up by a loud yell of “OHJESUSICAN’TBREATHE!” coming from several rooms away. By the time she’d properly woken up, reassured Frances no harm would come to her, and made her way quietly to his room, Dennis was sitting at his window, watching the rain, and drinking from his flask. He had almost stopped shaking. If Madge had not been distracted with how best to comfort him, she would have probably thought him very picturesque, in a melancholy sort of way. As it was, she made her way over to join him and took his hand.   
“Great big pile of dirt – thought it’d landed over me and I was falling and couldn’t get back again. Sorry for waking you up” he said, glumly.  
“It’s fine;” she replied, “At least you let me get near this time.”  
“Thought if sat here and watched the rain…wouldn’t need this as much” he explained, holding the flask up.  
“And did it work?”  
“Bit”, and then, “Wanted to stop by now. Thought it’d make you happy. Thought you’d want a nice cricket boy, not…”. This was punctuated by a half-hearted wave of the hand.  
“You are a ‘nice cricket boy’,” Madge said diplomatically, “You might have some problems you didn’t before, but that’s not who you are. From what I can see, as much as you can’t, you’re still the sweet brave boy I love…ah. Right. I said that.”  
“Ah, it‘s alright…love you too.”  
“You do?! I mean, ahem, do you?”  
“Sure…you’re all warm, like…a rabbit, and you’re kind, like…another rabbit.”  
“A rabbit?”  
“Yes. Or an angel. That sorta thing.”  
“Well, being drunk certainly brings out the charmer in you, Dennis.”  
“Then I shall never be sober again” Dennis said solemnly, and then started to splutter with laughter. Madge joined in, in spite of herself.  
“See? It’s funny…It’s funny cos I’m… cos I’m an alcoholic and I’ll die! Ha! I’ll die!”  
“Please – oh God, I can’t stop laughing now – please promise me you won’t die, will you? It’d break my heart.”  
“Ah, anything for you.”  
“I’ll help you, I really will. You don’t even need to stop straight away, just…you drink because it helps you with painful thoughts, doesn’t it?”  
“Bingo. Hole in one. Wicket-maiden.”  
“Well – have you tried writing it down somewhere? No one would have to read it – it doesn’t even necessarily have to be about how you’re feeling.”  
“How’d I write with this arm?”  
“You could buy a typewriter. I doubt they’ll have one in town – oh, that reminds me. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Would you come into town with Frances and me?”  
“Sure. Completely forgot about all that. Should probably get you a present, shouldn’t I?”  
“And I’d quite like to get you a present that isn’t a packet of cigarettes, chocolate, and tinned pineapples.”  
“No, no, keep the pineapples. I loved those pineapples! Always used to end up with apricots out at the Front…can’t stand apricots. Sneaky little things, can’t work up the courage to be properly orange. Huh…I can eat all the pineapples I want now. I could buy a typewriter like you said. I can make plans that don’t involve barbed wire. Funny. Didn’t really think I’d get to do that again.”  
“And you used to have so many…” Madge took the opportunity to nestle next to him on the windowseat, and found he was a first-rate pillow.  
“I did, I did,” Dennis responded, not seeming to mind how close she was, “And then I got out there, and…only plan seemed to be what I’d send to you when…I didn’t think I’d make it out alive. Didn’t seem to mind by the end. Didn’t have a future, really. Just planning how…how when it happened, I’d go out like a brave dead hero – and you’d be happy.”  
“Why would I want a brave dead hero,” Madge asked, “When I could have one who’s still alive? And you are still alive, Dennis, you will still get a good death and I will still be proud of you – but you have to do it the long way round this time.”  
“I will, I will.”  
“And just think, you can get all your plans back. It was always so sweet when you used to tell me about –”  
“About the little house on the country lane! Nice open lawn to play cricket in, little pavilion in the garden for summer…Oh, thanks ver’ much…”  
Madge had briefly left the windowseat to grab his coat, and had now returned to tuck it over the both of them.  
“I might dig up a little vegetable patch and sell a few to our neighbours,” Madge said, resting her head on his shoulder and being rewarded with a happy, whiskey-scented little sigh, “I’d quite like to keep growing vegetables, no matter how dirty my hands get. And Dennis?”  
“Huh…?”  
“D’you still feel like you’re falling?”  
“…Can get back now…huh.”  
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day,” Madge said, and decided to keep on her current track, “I’d quite like windowboxes, as well, to put roses in – and then in the summer, when the roses were out, and this sounds silly, but there’d be butterflies…”  
“Doesn’ sound silly at all…sounds lovely…butterflies fly round your hair…go on…”  
And with a small, tired smile, he was asleep.

Frances Renfrew knew she was supposed to be heartbroken. The girl she could never be with was very happily in love with a man, and they were currently holding hands very tightly in a small clothes shop. But the fact was that Frances was not by nature a sentimental nor jealous woman, and though occasionally she felt slightly downcast whenever she saw Madge stretch on her tiptoes to kiss her ‘dear silly boy’ on the cheek, she invariably perked up when she was handed one of the most ridiculous hats in the shop to put on. It had a wagtail on the top. You couldn’t not laugh.   
“Madge, do you know what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?” Frances asked.  
“No, I don’t,” Madge replied, “Dennis, sweetheart, do you know?”  
“Absolutely not,” Stanhope said, “Go on then, what does happen?”  
“The unstoppable force tries to get the immovable object to buy a knitted pullover. And I watch.”  
“Well it’s a lovely pullover, and you need some nice new clothes.”  
“I’ve told you, I don’t want to spend unnecessary money on myself.”  
“The pullover will make you look terribly handsome.”  
“You’ve called me terribly handsome twice already today and I wasn’t wearing the pullover.”  
“I shall want to kiss you till my mouth goes numb.”  
“Madge, you told me you wanted to do that to him this morning at breakfast. And the shop assistant will hear if you speak much louder.”  
“If you won’t buy it, I will. It’ll be a nice Christmas present.”  
“You’ll have ruined the surprise.”  
Madge was defeated for just a moment, until she looked at the display in the window of the shop opposite, and figured out a way to potentially kill two birds with one stone.  
“Very well. I’ll get you a present that’s a surprise…if you promise me you’ll buy yourself the pullover. You need to treat yourself better – and believe me Dennis, that’s not unnecessary at all.”   
And off she went to the corner of the shop, to look at a pretty set of handkerchiefs for Mrs Singh.  
“Well, the immovable object shifted,” said Stanhope to Frances, picking up the pullover, “And no surprise there. I’m always a bloody fool when it comes to making her happy.”  
“At least you want to give her reason to be happy,” said Frances mildly, “Instead of taking it for granted that she’ll smile all the time.”  
“Why on earth would I take it for granted? Quite frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t run a mile when she saw the state I’m in.”  
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. For one thing, she loves you. You don’t just give up on someone in trouble, do you? I mean, don’t misunderstand me, she’s upset at what’s happened to you, I know. But she doesn’t blame you.”  
“So she doesn’t think I’m a burden? She’s not afraid of me, or anything like that?”  
“Not in the slightest.”  
Stanhope bought the pullover without saying a word. And he kept putting his hand in his pocket – to check.

Dear Anne,  
How are you? Firstly, I hope this is still your address. Mine has changed since I was called home – I’m afraid living with Mother and Father was becoming a little stifling, so I ended up catching the train to Brighton of all places (and who would have thought I would have done something so bold?), and what with one thing and another I have not had time to stay in touch. I’m sending you my address on a separate piece of paper. Thankfully, some very nice people gave me a lovely writing set for Christmas, and I intend to use it. I have been staying in the Lake District over Christmas with my good school-friend Margaret, who I might have told you about – extremely nice girl, head-over-heels for Nice Young Man, wouldn’t stop telling us, etc. Was given the honour of meeting the NYM as he and his friends (the same people who gifted me this writing set) had accidentally booked the same hotel as us (Turnmouth Arms, run by Mr&Mrs Singh, would recommend highly). There was emotional kerfuffle which I will not go into here, suffice to say it was supremely dramatic & to do with the War, as most things are these days. But they are both much happier now, and with good reason – as I was heading to my room on Christmas evening, I saw them engaged in a display of affection which I feel will probably become very familiar to me, as there was a nice big ring on Margaret’s finger. It was her best Christmas present, even better than the scarf I gave her, but no hard feelings. Display of affection was made awkward by the fact that NYM’s hand was rather busy holding a large bottle of extremely sour yet moreish lemonade, and an even larger pineapple which his friends had given him. Anyway, they hope to marry within the coming year if all goes well, and have said I can invite as many friends as I have, to counteract their parents (her mother and his father are both extremely overbearing, and what is more, hate each other’s guts). The problem being that really the only person I can think of who I consider my friend is probably you, Anne. Not that it is a problem that you are my friend. I have no doubt that you on your own will be a match for both troublesome parents, if how you spoke to the Field Doctors is any inclination. Therefore, I am inviting you to the wedding, at a date to be announced, where you can hopefully meet all the people I have just told you about. I really hope you can make the date, as we haven’t seen each other in far too long.  
Yours faithfully, and Merry Christmas,  
Frances Renfrew

“And Dennis, it’s OK if you decide you’re not ready for this” Madge had been talking him through ideas of what to say since they’d left Frances in the teashop by the train station, telling them not to ‘do… anything’ while they were there.  
“Absolutely not! I have a duty to the man, Madge.” Stanhope responded indignantly, “I simply can’t let him down.”  
“How very honourable of you,” smiled Madge, and as she kissed him, he felt warm, in spite of the cold January air.  
“Now,” said Stanhope, when he had recovered himself, “I’ve got the address here – ah yes, this should be it.”   
As much as he hated to admit it, Madge was definitely helping his insides not churn too much. She squeezed his hand as he pushed the knocker on the door, and he didn’t really have the heart to reminder her that was his bad arm.  
A middle-aged woman opened the door.  
“Mrs Osborne?...I’m…my name is…Mr Stanhope…I, ah, I served with your husband, may he rest in peace, and…oh God, ah…(not normally this bloody shy)…he was one of the best men I ever–”  
Mrs Osborne pulled them both inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was that. The fic is finished. I never thought I'd say that. It's been wonderful to work on, even if I have found myself yelling at the screen on more than one occasion. I'd like to thank everyone that's read this, and/or left kudos/comments. I'd like to thank everyone I talk about this on Tumblr with, for shamelessly using them as a sounding-board and also pestering them. I should also probably thank RC Sherriff, and the bad-tempered voice in my head that I can only assume is Stanhope. Swine on, you crazy diamond.  
> There may be a sequel to this, who knows. But for now: cheero old chaps. See you when the film comes out.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic for a fandom that mostly came about through GCSE and A-Level English Lit. All six of us. I procrastinated like hell on this, but I'm glad I went through with it because there now exists a canon where Stanhope and Trotter definitely survive! I'd like to offer thanks to everyone who had to listen to my ramblings on this bloody play which has ruined my life, and I hope that by giving Stanhope some form of happy ending I will no longer hear his imaginary dramatic sighing whenever I walk past apricot-scented candles. Or whisky. Or cricket matches.


End file.
